


Judge and Jury

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of trauma, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon/Original Character pairing, F/M, Gen, Mentions of Past Violence/Murder/Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 19:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5139815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It would seem my greatest sin was being born.  It has condemned my very soul, and the world is my judge and my jury."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Judge and Jury

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, one and all! I'm back, with a follow-up series to "Tiger, Tiger". For more information, please see notes under series title "The Game".
> 
> For the first episode of this sequel series, we find ourselves between the Season 1 finale and Season 2 premiere, with Iris trying to come to terms with the aftermath of her experience with The Ogre and what it will mean for her and Victor's relationship.

In the strangely suspended breath of time that, in other places besides Gotham City, is referred to as Spring, the skies are bleak and the weather is cold, and anyone who spends more than five minutes within the city limits knows Spring has long since abandoned this place. Winter reigns supreme nine months out of twelve, sinks its claws in deep, and refuses to yield control over the city. Summer, if it has ever tried to compete and fight for rights, no longer does, and consequently Spring is a time of cold, rain, grey skies, and little else. The sun appears in short, stolen bursts, usually in the morning, and then fades a few short hours later. No one looks to the sky in mourning or openly wishes for some light, something to indicate life in a barren pit of desolation. The change of seasons, similar to other changes within the city, occurs with great indifference from all affected.

Down in the mixed parts of downtown, where sunlight can barely negotiate around towering building to touch the ground below, the air is cold, bitter; it reeks of the street, smoke, corruption, human filth, and blood. Some keep to themselves, huddled close together and speaking in hushed tones; others are vultures, coyotes, lingering in the shadows, waiting for a stray lamb to venture too far and be captured in waiting jaws. The rest exist somewhere in the middle.

Today, there is someone new to take into consideration. A figure in black, with a matching scarf artfully arranged over her head and throat, large sunglasses blotting out all distinct details of her face, walking down the streets with calm elegance and the strangest of companions—a young tiger, snow white fur interrupted with black stripes and piercing blue eyes taking in all to be seen—at her side. The cautious step away, give her a wide berth, but there are some, mostly children who look on with wide eyes, seeing no danger. A little boy with brown eyes and dark curls peeks out from behind his mother’s legs and gives her a tiny smile.

The woman smiles in return, not too long to be uncomfortable, not too short to be rude; in silence, she envies this little boy. It must be wonderful to know how to smile at such a young age. To look upon the world with such innocence and wonder, to never know the danger and death that will take you without mercy. That is an innocence to be protected.

Down an alley, she finds a different world, the mismatched half to the one existing just around the corner. This is a world of despair, where men and women, young and old, cling to life with bloodied fingertips, clutching and grasping to life, reliant upon the kindness of strangers and the carnal instinct to survive. More often than not, the latter wins. People in this world do things they never imagined, things they once swore they would never do. People here have lost hope; they simply exist to get by, not to live, and never to thrive.

Her strange guise is also a source of protection; for all their base impulses, people in this world are wary of newcomers. They are especially wary when they can’t see the eyes. The eyes speak far more than the lips. Her eyes, should she show them, would declare her an innocent civilian or a legitimate threat. At the moment, she’s not sure which one she is. She hasn’t been sure for weeks.

From behind her, back in the world of hopeful protection for those foolish enough to believe any place is truly safe anymore, she hears screaming. She hears a woman cry for mercy, for the sake of her child, and it’s enough to warrant further inspection. The alley clears out, people scrambling away as a new figure appears, dirty and disheveled, hurrying into the darker paths, where he considers it safe. She doesn’t care much for this man, but she does care for the little boy held captive in his arms. Brown curls, brown eyes, cheeks red and smeared with fat tears rolling down as he cries. The man drops him to the ground, then hits him across the face with a shouted command to shut up.

She remembers being hit, several times. She remembers her silence being ordered. She remembers the way it felt to be at the mercy of someone who looked upon her, young and vulnerable and innocent, without care. She remembers knowing there was nothing and no one to protect her. It is a cold, ugly, horrible feeling.

At one side, her companion growls, bristling at the noise, but quiets with a soft touch to the brow ridge. The cub knows her mother’s touch, the silent code of communication established between them from the first meeting. In a single touch, she hears her mother’s gentle reassurance, a reminder that she is too young for this, too inexperienced. One blow from a fist or one kick could kill her. But she has to learn somehow, and a mother teaches her cub by example. And so, blue eyes wide and alert, mind ready to learn, instincts ready to be honed, she waits and watches.

“Leave him be.” The woman says, taking a few steps forward. The command gets his attention, as it does the boy’s. His small eyes widen, recognizing the strange woman in black who smiled kindly at him only moments before, and the tears run fresh; now, she knows, he is wondering who this woman really is, what her return will mean for him. He is trying to understand if she will protect him or run away, like the rest. She did not have to see what occurred on the streets, seconds earlier, to know he has already seen people scatter, flee like rats because they are more interested in their own safety than the life of a little child. It is a cold blow, to a child’s heart. Often, it is enough to break that fragile heart. She would know.

The man pulls out a gun, in direct aim for her chest. “Mind your own business. This isn’t your concern.”

“Oh?” she continues forward. “And why is this boy _your_ concern? Has he offended you? Does he owe you a monetary sum? Did he kill your father, or your mother, or commit some other terrible crime, for which he must pay with his life?”

“Shut up!” he snaps; she is close enough now to make out his eyes, even through the protective lens of her sunglasses. The pupils are too wide; this one has been playing with a few illegal substances. She takes another step forward, and now she can see the chemical burns around his mouth and nose. _Ah._ Household cleaners _and_ illegal drugs. 

“What do you propose to do?” she asks, tilting her head a little. “Ransom him?”

“I said, shut up!” he brandishes the gun wildly. “Shut it before I put a bullet down your throat!”

Her lips thin into a smile; it makes him step backwards, just a little, still eyeing her with agitation, but now he also looks concerned. “You are welcome to try.” She murmurs. “But I do not think you can quite achieve that, not from where you stand.”

He throws an explicit curse at her, aims, and pulls the trigger. The boy cries out a wordless warning; it mingles with the sound of a bullet striking the dumpster. The next bullet hits the brick wall. The cub snarls, haunches up, teeth bared. The woman blinks and takes three steps forward. “Not quite.” She says. “Care to try again?”

The next curse is equally vulgar; the boy cringes and clutches both hands over his little ears. Three more bullets come; the second and third are a little closer to her, but not enough, and now she’s less than a foot away from him. He pulls the trigger again, in direct aim for her head, and the _click_ of an empty barrel resonates through the air.

“Too bad.” She murmurs, shaking her head. “So sad.”

The hand holding his gun quickly finds itself in a vice grip, while her other hand fits securely around his throat and locks in place. She looks down at the child, at his awe-filled eyes, and smiles gently. “Go on, sweet boy.” She murmurs. “Your mother is waiting.”

He stares, just a moment more. “Who are you?” it is a whisper filled with wonder, an imagination that’s trying to fit together the missing pieces of her face, to fill in what the glasses hide, to imagine what she might look like without the scarf wrapped around her head. She would like to know what picture he is creating in that little head of his. A child’s imagination is, after all, such a beautiful thing.

“No one.” She murmurs. “Now go. You will sleep safe tonight.”

The sounds of his small footsteps echo for a moment as he flees around the corner, then fade into silence. She looks at the man caught in her grasp, throat pinched between her claws, fingers wrapping around his weapon, securing it in her other hand, and then she hoists the gun high. “If you are going to kill someone,” she whispers, “make sure you know how to do it right. Allow me to demonstrate.”

***

The police sirens have faded, about three blocks back, to wisps of sound carried by the wind. Nothing oppressing; merely background noise entertained by the ears without much interest. The streets are empty, save for the few hopeful who remain no matter the time of day, regardless of any occurrence out of the norm, just in case there might be something of value to add substance to their lives. They watch her pass by, but say nothing. The blood spatter across her face can be mistaken for nothing else, and people here know better than to ask questions of strangers.

Her arm tingles, half numb and half over-sensitized, and her knuckles are locked from the vice grip she had on the gun. With every step, she feels the weapon bump into her side, nestled deep in her pocket. It’s almost like a quiet protest, pleading against her next course of action. She supposes, in a way, she could feel sorry for the poor thing. It didn’t do anything to deserve this fate, but neither can it remain to see the light of day again.

She watches the gun fly, fly, fly from her hand through the air, and then meet the water with a loud splash. There is no buoyancy to it form; it sink, deep into the river, with barely a ripple in its memory. She stands a moment longer, staring at the spot without seeing. She can hear the sound of his skull cracking, splitting beneath each blow. She can taste his blood, dried on her lips. Her stomach clenches, tightens and twists; her knees buckle, arms instinctively wrapping around her gut, and she careens forward to the ground, to all fours. There is nothing for her stomach to empty—she hasn’t tasted food in…days? Weeks?—but the violent retching continues for five minutes. Her throat burns, raw, and tears flick free of her eyelashes. Finally, the spell passes, her limbs regain their strength, and she manages to stand upright once more. 

Shakta nuzzles her, mewing softly. The little one has improved, over these past weeks. The first time, she became greatly distressed, wailed for an hour, and was timid around her mother for nearly two days. Now, she has learned. Now, she knows the signs of her mother’s distress and anguish are not to be confused with aggression. Now, she comforts instead of flees.

Iris gently sets a hand to her cub’s head, stroking lightly. It is a kind reminder that she is not always alone.

***

“Where were you?”

“Out.” Iris answers, shrugging free of the coat and unwrapping the scarf. “Shakta needed some fresh air, and to be perfectly honest, so did I. And may I ask you stop commanding my whereabouts, Victor? I am not a child.”

Shakta follows her mother’s ways, as devoted and attentive as any young one, and her eyes have taken note, many times, what works best in certain situations. She knows the sharp tension in her father’s voice can be soothed away with the proper treatment, and so she now acts accordingly, coiling her tail around his leg, arching deep into the smooth fabric of trousers, and purring her delight at his warmth and comforting presence. His hand lowers, fingers splayed across her head and rubbing just as she likes, but the edge is not lost from his tone.

“It gives me no pleasure to treat you as such, Iris.” He says, eyes watching her movements with scrutiny, enough to make her shift and nearly squirm with discomfort. “But this can’t continue. You aren’t ready.”

“I am fine, Victor.”

“The blood on your face tells me otherwise.” He replies, tersely. “Is there a body somewhere I should be aware of?”

She turns slowly, eyes holding his gaze with weary acceptance. “He threatened a child, and then he threatened me.” She says quietly, tone hollow to match her gaze. “He crafted his own fate.”

“Iris—”

“Please, Victor.” She interrupts, already halfway down the hall, heels clicking against wooden floors. “I am tired. I need to sleep.”

Down the hall, up the stairs, and down another hall, then the door clicks. His phone begins ringing. He ignores it. It rings again. And then a third time. On the fourth time, he pulls it free with a violent gesture and hurls it across the room. The resounding _crack_ of plastic snapping into tiled walls is punctuated with a quiet but explicit curse. Shakta quivers, and Victor crouches down to kiss her head with a murmured apology and a promise to never speak that way again, not when her delicate ears can hear him. She settles, after a moment’s comfort; he rests heavily on the floor, on bended knee, and exhales sharply. Enough is enough. This can’t continue.

Falcone’s departure to the south, while not entirely unexpected in the aftermath of a shooting war that left the streets riddled with bullets, bodies, and blood, one mafia don dead, the other forced into early retirement, and only the little bird to take over the throne, unopposed and with great smug satisfaction at his ascension, certainly came at an inopportune time. It’s too much, all at once: his employer uprooting and leaving him unattended, Iris alive and safe but most certainly not “fine”—contrary to her insistence on the matter—and now, Penguin will not stop calling him. Admittedly, Victor never answers, never receives a definitive identification as to the caller who keeps his phone alive, but he doesn’t need one. He knows. Falcone is gone, Penguin holds the throne, and his entitlement is an overbearing cloud across the city. The territories, the men, the spoils of war, all his to claim and do with as he pleases. It’s a wonderful life for the new King of Gotham.

The law, via Don Falcone’s living will, is on Iris’ side, ensuring Penguin can’t touch the manor and surrounding properties. Insofar as anyone knows, the house is vacant—though, according to some whispers flitting about town, haunted by strange figures moving throughout these hallowed halls—and untouchable, for now. Penguin is left to rule his new empire from the little nightclub, barred from the much-coveted mansion on Gotham’s outskirts. He sent a few men two weeks prior, trying to squeeze out any unknown inhabitants and take the land by force. Victor dealt with them accordingly. There have been no attempts since. Yet. Penguin, as Victor knows personally, doesn’t surrender so easily.

He exhales again, pressing one hand into his brow, hard enough to spark little white dots across his vision. This can’t continue. Disappearing without warning, leaving for long periods of time, returning home and promptly declaring herself tired enough to retire in the middle of the day…and now this. Now, blood spattered across her cheeks, possibly more hidden within the dark fabric of her clothing, and no doubt, a body just waiting to be discovered. He’s not surprised, not disturbed, but he is tired. Tired of the walls between them, the come-and-go interaction, the empty emotion that is fit for the living dead rather than the passionate and fiery wolf he knows…he’s tired of it. All of it.

From its place on the floor, the phone rings. Again. He lets it go, staring vacantly through the second and third calls. Finally, on lucky number four, he shifts forward, collects the phone, and answers.

***

She stares at him, eyes wide, expression confused. “…What?”

“I’m going out.” He answers, determinedly not meeting her gaze longer than necessary. He won’t be the puppet on her strings, pulled one way or another. He needs space. He needs air. And he needs to kill someone. Not necessarily in that order. “I should be back by tonight. In the meantime, try to not leave another body in the streets, please.”

The _please_ is nothing more than a dry statement, not even a pleasantry or imploring accent to his words. He knows she hears it as such, as she stands from the armchair and takes a step forward, seeking more explanation and clarifying the body was left in an alley, in downtown, all in the same breath. He might, in different circumstances, be impressed with her nonpulsed response, particularly when admitting to killing someone, but he’s not. He’s heard those words before.

“Penguin has loose ends to tie.” Still, he won’t look at her. “At least someone can make use of me.”

It’s a low blow, yes, but he feels like being cold, feels like showcasing the simmering flame of vindictive resentment. He feels like letting her taste the same medicine: the sting of being dismissed from her presence, of having her withdraw from his touch in an icy contrast to the fiery passion she’d given at their reunion, of nightmares—which she denies having, repeatedly—keeping her awake and away from their bed and away from his arms. It’s juvenile, it’s absurd, it’s beneath him, but he wants her to feel it. He wants to hurt her. He wants her to hurt until she can’t breathe.

“Wait…” A soft, imploring whisper; it’s easy enough to pretend he didn’t hear it. That it was muffled beneath the sound of leather fitting tight over his hands and the metallic _click_ of his gun, loaded and ready, settling into his belt.

“Victor, wait.” Two steps forward; he finishes buttoning the jacket, a protection against the chilled weather outside, and takes four deliberate steps to the study door. He intends to take his time with this person, whoever it is Penguin wants dead. He wants a bullet in every single joint, one after the other, and then, finally, when the prey is a writhing mass on the floor, bleeding and wailing, one last bullet to the—

A pair of arms locks around him from behind, hands fisting in his front, and a warm body presses tight to his back. She’s warm. _Oh_ , she’s so warm. He’d almost forgotten. Three weeks without her, without the silken sweetness of her living flesh against him, beneath his touch, within his grasp…

“I will tell you.” She breathes, voice quivering around each word. “I will tell you everything. Just as you want. Just…just please. Do not go.”

He’s supposed to feel relieved, or satisfied, or something. Instead, he feels a blazing rush of anger, locking limbs in place, a wave of rigid fury crashing over him. “I’m not your pet, Iris.” He whispers, staring determinedly at the door. “You can’t pull me back and forth like a tamed dog. I’ve been in a cage before. I won’t go back to that. I won’t.”

“I do not want you caged.” She whimpers, clutching tighter. “I never have. Please believe me.”

He does. He shouldn’t, but he does. “This won’t continue.” He says, after a moment’s pause. “Do you understand me, Iris? You either trust me, or you don’t. You either love me, or you—”

“Do _not_ finish that.” She hisses, tears replaced with her anger. Good. _Get angry. Show me some damned emotion._ “Do not dare question my love, Victor. My love for you kept me alive, kept me going and fighting even when…”

She falters, and this time, unlike the last three weeks, he doesn’t let it pass. “When what?”

Silence, yet again, and his next breath is a tight growl buried deep in his throat. “I have work to do, Iris. Let go.”

“No!” Tears, again. “Please. Please…do not leave me.”

Enough is enough. He turns, before she can register the action, grabs her shoulders, and presses her to the closest wall. A soft _thud_ echoes when her back meets the foundations, and she flinches a little. His grip is too tight; he can see his fingers pinching down into her skin. Her eyes gleam with unshed tears. _No._ He shakes her, hard, and crushes her into the wall again. She gasps, softly, blinks, and the tears finally come. _That’s better._

“I’m not your pet.” He repeats, voice low. “I’m not your slave. I do not work for you. You will not tell me when I can be a part of your life and when I’m to live in the shadows. Three weeks I have been without your touch. Three weeks, I’ve dealt with your cold dismissal, like I’m a troublesome pest. Three weeks, I’ve watched you fall away and reject my every attempt to bring you back. You treat me like a toothless mutt, Iris.”

“No, I—”

“ _Don’t_.” He growls. “Don’t play that game with me, little girl. Three weeks, I’ve lived like this, an obedient dog meandering in your shadow. But I’m a man. A man who loves you, who wants you. A man who has wanted you for _three weeks_ , and every fiber in my body is begging to take you, right here. I could take you against this wall, for hours. Hour after hour after hour…”

The image alone is making his head spin, his blood burn, and he finally meets her eye, waiting for the fear, the terror and horror of what he’s proposing. He’s waiting for the tears, the whimpering pleas for mercy, more promises to do as he wants, say whatever he wants to hear…but the tears are drying on her cheeks, and her chest is tight, each breath short, constricted in her lungs, and her fingers are clinging to his lapels like she will collapse without a hold on him.

He breathes out slowly, swallows twice, and then exhales again. “You were fire in my arms that night, Iris. Alive. Passionate. You wanted me, needed me. And then, by the next morning, you treated me as though I hurt you. As though I violated you.”

“No…” she whispers, lips quivering, “No, never. I did. I wanted you, needed you. But when I awoke, saw the blood, felt the sting on your blade still fresh on my back…I wanted it, I wanted _you_ , but my mind was cruel, a traitor. I felt the marks and all I could do was remember.”

“Remember what?” he demands, tightening his grip on her again, shaking once more as though it will rattle the words free of her lips. “I am tired of this game, Iris. You never kept things from me as a child. Never! Why now—?”

“I was a _child_!” she snaps, anger cracking through her tears, turning them cold. “I was weak and helpless and I needed you! I am a woman now, and yet still I was a victim! He grabbed me off the streets, Victor! I was raised better, taught better, and yet still he took me. He took me away, stole me from my home, from _you_. He violated my body, raped my mind, and tried to claim me for his own. Escaping from one pit of Hell brought me to another, to the darkest places of my mind, to a cold, hideous world where my parents, who are dead and rotting in the ground, were alive and spoke to me, broke me apart piece by piece, until all I wanted was death! I was _weak_ , I was _helpless_ , and I was _alone_! Why would I ever want to go back to that place?”

“So _this_ is a happier place? Where you treat the man you claim to love like a dog?” his fingers clamp down into her arms, and she whimpers. “What am I to you, Iris? Tell me _that_ , if you won’t tell me anything else!”

“I _love_ you!” she sobs, fighting against his grip. “I love you, Victor, I swear I do! I love you, and I want you so much it is killing me. But…”

She sobs again, fingers clawing at his jacket. “Victor…my tiger, please. Please forgive me. He touched me. He touched me, he hurt me, and I…all I feel, all I see, is him. I hate it. I hate _him_. God as my witness, if I could bring him back to life, I would. Just so you could destroy him for what he has done to me. To _us_. Forgive me. _Please_ forgive me…”

Her legs surrender the right to hold her upright; his grip is all keeping her on two feet, pinned to the wall like a butterfly. A butterfly with its wings torn off, broken, miserable…this is a victim. This is a battered soul needing to be put out of her misery. This is not Iris. This is not the woman he loves. But that woman is still in there, somewhere. He just needs to find her.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, relaxing his grip and wrapping her close, voice soft, the comforting tone he once used when she was a child, “it’s alright, sweet girl. Shhh…it’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here. Hush now.”

His arms lift her, this fragile and half-starved little shell, and carry her to bed. Her face buries in his chest, tears wetting the jacket material, each sob softer but still capable of racking her frame with a violent tremble. She’s much younger, in this moment. Damaged. Dismantled. He knew there were scars hiding beneath the surface, lingering untouched, unstable and just waiting for the right pressure in the right place to bring each one to life. He didn’t, however, realize the extent and the type. Scars, as he well knows, have different faces and different forms.

He rests her on the bed, wrapped in a silk dressing gown, and gently reassures her that he’ll only be gone a moment, that he isn’t leaving, when she frantically pleads for him to stay, to not leave her, and then goes to the kitchen. He doesn’t dabble in witchcraft or utilize herbs for daily living, but he does know some concoctions passed down from his grandparents. This one, in particular, he’s used before.

When he returns, a steaming mug in hand, Iris is curled at the headboard, knees tucked to her chest, face sticky with dried tears, eyes taking note of his offering with a quiet sigh. “Is that what I think it is?” she asks, very quietly, very childlike. The last time he brought her this potion, she barely blinked, intently focused elsewhere, until the herbs took effect and left her limb and compliant to his extraction.

“Yes.”

The tears return, pool in her eyes, and stream down both cheeks. “Please…” she shakes her head, whimpering, “I cannot…do not make me sleep, Victor. Please.”

“You haven’t slept in three weeks.” He reminds her, taking a seat beside her, atop the bedcovers, mug steadied in both hands. “If you were anyone else, you’d be dead. We’re not doing this for another week.”

“I will see them.”

“They can’t touch you. They’re dead.”

“I will see them.” She repeats, trembling violently at the mere thought of it. “Please…do not do this to me. I…I am afraid.”

“I know.” He murmurs, collecting her once more in his arms; the mug is set aside on the nightstand, for now, while he strokes fingers through her hair, soothing her agitated nerves, and promises to stay, to hold her while she sleeps, to keep her close and guard her dreams. He is her tiger, tooth and claw ready to strike at a moment’s notice. He will protect her.

His promises settle her, coax her into compliance, and the herbs work quickly. She doesn’t even finish the full cup before succumbing to the effects. He is there, ready and waiting, when exhaustion steals her away and leaves her limb in his embrace, eyes closed, finally an expression of peace settling over her pale features. It softens the sharp edges of starvation and emotional fatigue, enough that she almost looks like herself again.

He reclines against the headboard, keeping her close, wrapped secure in his embrace and shadow; he listens to each breath, counts the beat of her pulse in silence, and lets his fingertips relearn her skin, the soft warmth of her living form, the silken strands of hair. His movements are calculated, controlled; he will not take advantage of her, not like this. He could, and his primal urges demand it, but he won’t. He refuses to be a common rapist, and most certainly would never lay hands on her in that way. If he is to have her, it will be when she awake, and compliant, and as eager for his body as he is for hers.

***

Receiving the details is a slow process, over the next few days, but not nearly as tedious as the past three weeks. He employs patience, encourages when she begins and then falters, and the gates open to him very quickly. She doesn’t share all at once, nor does he expect her too. But she tells little things, here and there; sometimes it comes at rather random moments, when a sight or a smell triggers memory, but he lets her talk, listening in silence and with great attention. Let it never be said he wouldn’t have made an excellent therapist.

News from the outside world filter in, little by little, fragmented and without great details attached. Most of it—Jim Gordon’s exile from the police department, for one, although he is mildly curious just what Gordon managed to do this time, that warranted being fired instead of just reassigned—Victor doesn’t particularly care about. The rest of it is either old news or just unsurprising.

On the eighth day, he finds her in the overrun garden, perched on a decorative bench and watching Shakta prowl through the bushes, keeping watch for any birds that might venture close enough to catch. Iris is wrapped in a thick blanket, protection against the chill which promises rain later today, with her hair loosely braided and hanging down one shoulder. Her blue eyes stare outward, blank and empty. The most response she gives is the occasional shiver when the cold creeps through her blanket.

He sits beside her, wraps her into an embrace, and pulls her close to his chest. She shivers and molds herself to his form, head tucking beneath his jaw. Her hair is chilled, and damp. He sighs. “Looking to experience the wonders of pneumonia, Iris?”

She shivers again, fingers dragging the blanket closer. “I was in the bath.” She whispers. “And suddenly…I just needed to breathe.”

“What happened?”

Silence follows, for a moment; across the way, a robin chirps from the tree tops, singing a random melody. Down below, a flash of white appears, disappears, and then lunges for the branch. The bird breaks away with a sharp cry, taking to the skies once more, and Shakta drops to the ground with awkward grace. She was close. She just needs a little practice.

“I was washing, and I touched…” beneath the blanket, her leg shifts, drawing closer to its fellow, and he understands. “They hurt, Victor. More than the rest.”

“The skin is exceptionally sensitive there.” He says, kissing her crown. “It needs to be more receptive to pain, to perceive a threat before anything can damage the arteries.”

Iris shivers again, then coughs. It’s quiet, nothing dramatic, but it’s a bad sign and he quickly collects her inside, where it’s warm. She’s been ill before: shortly after her thirteenth birthday, after her father made her an orphan and she was sent to a pitiful excuse for a group home, she came down with a terrible cold. It may or may not have had something to do with standing in the snow, barefoot, for half an hour. He wasn’t there to tend to her that time, thanks to various obligations. Things are different now. He can take care of her now.

Sure enough, Iris awakens the next morning with the fever from Hell. She’s a shivering, sweat-soaked mess, huddled beneath the covers, coughing her throat raw, head throbbing with each movement. There has never been a more opportune moment to tell her _I told you so_ , but he doesn’t have the heart for that. She’s a twenty-year-old woman who looks like a little girl on her deathbed. It’s just pitiful, even by his standards.

She doesn’t sleep that night, the fever wreaking havoc on her body, so he decides to change tactic. There’s some element of ridiculousness in this, he knows, a grown man trying to emulate his own mother’s strategies for dealing with him during times of illness, but they worked every time. Besides, he’s not taking Iris to the hospital. He probably should, but he won’t. Her mental state is delicate enough as it is; taking her to the hospital will result in a psychotic break, and he does _not_ have the time to deal with both that and the general public.

Iris whimpers and shakes her head, burying deeper into the covers, when he reaches for her. “No…” she coughs, yet again, “I will infect you.”

“There are worse fates, my sweet one.” He promises, negotiating her out from under the covers and into his arms. Her skin is damp, sticky with sweat, and blazing with fever. She whimpers when the cool air hits her skin. He rubs a hand up and down her back, murmuring soft reassurances, and takes her into the bathroom. Steam from the hot water rises like mist, welcoming her quivering form as Victor lowers her into the warm depths. The water settles below her chin, head resting back against the porcelain rim as the tension begins to fade and she relaxes.

He rolls up both sleeves; the scars are dull pink in the light. The shampoo foams between his hands, a thick froth that leaves raised lines in her hair as he cards fingers through the damp strands. He’ll admit, silently, this is his first time playing the role, and he doubts he is the best at it, at being the tender caretaker, tending to her as he would a young child. It feels…strange. Like clothing that doesn’t fit right: each movement stiff, awkward, lacking his usual grace and refined technique. For the first time in a very, very long time—certainly the first time in his adult life—he has no idea what he’s doing, and if he’s even doing it right.

Iris says nothing; if not for the flutter of eyelashes and two visible orbs of blue, he might think she fell asleep. After a few minutes, he wordlessly directs her deeper into the pool, to rinse the suds from her hair. He keeps the pressure light, without force. This is new, and it’s uncomfortable. His body is warring violently with his mind. If he has someone in a tub full of water, and their head is beneath the surface, his hands are clamped down over their skull, maybe one firmly on their shoulder, and he’s not releasing them until the thrashing stops and they’ve drawn their last breath.

His hands flex, control slipping for a moment, fingers locking within her dark hair, and he quickly jerks them back, clasping the rim and drawing slow breaths. Control. _Control._ He can’t. _I could…_ and it would be so very easy— _No. No, never. I’ll never hurt you, sweet girl._

Iris surfaces like something from fairytales and folklore: pale features breaking the water in slow suspension, black hair streaming like diluted ink stains, blue eyes glittering in golden light. She sits upright, bared from head to the top curves of her chest, water dribbling freely down her limbs, across her skin, rippling around her stationary form. “Do you think about it often, Victor?” she whispers, staring downward. “How easy it would be?”

His grip on the rim tightens, fingers pressing down into porcelain until the tips ache. She takes his silence accordingly, unmoved, and continues, “You carved beauty into my flesh, made me your living masterpiece. When it was finished, all you had to do was reach around, set the blade to my skin, and slit my throat.”

_There would have been blood. So much blood. Everywhere._ Her beautiful blood, crimson rivers spreading from East to West like feathers, like strewn ribbons. Pure. Red. Gleaming in the light. _Beautiful…_

“And just now,” she continues, either unaware of or ignoring his lapsing attention, “you had me at your mercy, compliant, too weak to fight you. You only needed to keep me there, until what remains of my survival instinct loses its last battle, and then…nothing.”

Nothing, but pale skin and blue eyes forever sealed shut. He could have held her in his arms, running fingers through her hair, brushing a caress here and there across her skin. Alone, together, waiting for her body to grow cold. And then…

_No. Not you. I can’t._

“It’s too soon.” He says, quietly, willing his tone to not showcase the faintest hint of emotion, or reluctance, or anything that would betray him. He stands, seeking and finding the soap as though he’s been waiting to continue bathing her, as though his mind has never once been anywhere else and harbored any other thoughts. “I’m not ready to…There’s still work to be done. Now, lean back. I need to finish.”

Iris, as usual, doesn’t obey. “My death has no impact on your life, Victor.”

He lowers back to his knees, fingers holding the soap in a death grip. He’s waiting for it to shatter in his palm, fragment across the floor, castoff into the bath and sink to the porcelain base. _Control. Control._ The soap finally slips free, not breaking apart, but descending to the water with a soft _plop!_ He watches it sink, floating in reverse, and settle in place without noise. He can feel his heart, a violent beat bruising his ribs from the inside out. It hurts. His chest feels too tight. If he could crack it open, split his ribs apart and leave the organ exposed and unrestrained, maybe, perhaps….

He swallows, exhales tightly, and leans heavily against the bath. “You really think I can live in a world where you don’t exist.”

_My world begins and ends with you_ , he doesn’t add. _When he took you…when I thought I you were never coming back, when I thought I would never again see you, touch you, be near you…_

It happens fast, very fast, but he feels, hears, and sees everything in suspended breaths of time. Her hands on his face, gently pulling him back, redirecting his gaze from emptiness to her seeking gaze. The rippling shift as she closes the distance between them, pressing close to the rim, so close, sharing his space, sharing his breath. The soft shapes and graceful lines of her face, her eyes, her lips—on his, against his, kissing. Kissing him. She’s kissing him. _Iris. My Iris…_

“I thought you didn’t want to get me sick.” He whispers, against her lips, when the need for air has worked his lungs into a frenzy. His fingers are still lost in her soaked curls, clutching, holding her close before she slips away again.

“Misery loves company.” She offers, with the softest lift to her lips. It’s a sweet smile. He kisses that smile, again, and again, and again…

He puts her to bed a little while later, warm and clean and smelling of vanilla soap, and rekindles the fire in its hearth. Shakta promptly makes herself comfortable on the rug and falls asleep. He watches the cub with an affectionate smirk, stroking her head for a moment, quietly taking note of the way she’s grown taller, stronger. Still not the great hunter she is destined to become, but that will change, in due time. For now, she is still growing, still learning.

Iris’ hand rests at his shoulder blades, a subtle warmth through his shirt, and he watches as she settles beside him. He thinks, for a moment, to say she needs to be in bed, needs to be sleeping, needs to keep warm… He says nothing. Her chin is resting on his shoulder, and the last two hours have been filled with the most intimacy he’s had from her in a month. He couldn’t pretend to want her anywhere else, even if there was a gun to his head.

“Tell me.”

Her whisper is soft, barely audible over the spitting flames, and it takes him a moment to realize she even said anything. “What?”

“Tell me.” She repeats; the hand on his back runs a slow, gentle path from his shoulders to lower spine, and up again. She’s warm against him, but not the raging blaze that coated her skin hours earlier… He breathes a silent sigh of relief. Her fever has broken. “Please. I need to know it is still true.”

Beside them, Shakta twitches in her sleep, rolls over to the other side, and falls still again. “I’ve tried to hate you, Iris.” He says, one hand ascending to hers, the one resting at his other shoulder, and capturing it without resistance. Her fingers slip between his, palm fitting to his. “I’ve imagined a dozen different ways, these past weeks, to kill you, erase you from my life, and move on. Each plan is foil proof, until I get to the _moving on_ part.”

“What happens?”

“Every scene ends the same.” His thumb brushes over her hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath warm skin. “I kill you. I hold you, kiss you one last time…and once you grow cold in my arms, I put a bullet in my head.”

Her cheek tilts, pressing into him. Tears dampen the cloth of his shirt. “I have missed you, my tiger.”

For a moment, he stays silent. Then he kisses her hand, her knuckles, and her wrist, in that order, several times. “I love you, Iris.” He finally says. “That hasn’t changed.”

Her fingers run soft brushes along his lips. He blinks, and she’s drawn closer to him, shifted position not to flee but to erase the distance between them. Her eyes are dark, her breaths low and unsteady. “He hurt me, my tiger.” She whispers, and the memories make her tremble, yet again.

“I know.” he whispers, tangling the fingers of one hand in her dark hair. “I know, sweet girl.”

“This world has hurt me, so many times, from the moment I was brought into it.” She continues; tears gather in her eyes, glimmering in the firelight. “It would seem my greatest sin was my first: that of being born. A thousand acts of kindness…” her fingertips press to his jaw, his cheek, gliding strokes at random; he wonders if she is simply touching, or relearning his face, his skin… “…could never atone for that first sin. It has condemned my very soul, and the world is my judge and my jury.”

Her hand runs across the back of his head, down to his neck, and then slides heavily down his chest. “When I was alone, lost to the mercy of my fractured sanity, my mother came to me. She told me, time and time again, I was going to die in that place. She told me I was going to die alone, while my tiger was someplace else, someplace far from that desolate pit, with another in his arms. Someone worthy of his love, when I was not.”

He can’t resist a thin, unamused smile at the thought. “Your tiger,” he says, slowly, hand taking hold of hers and keeping it firm to his chest, “had only one lover during that time. Her name was Insanity. She was, perhaps, the cruelest creature in existence, and I am glad to be rid of her.”

Iris says nothing, for a minute or two, then sighs once more. “This city abandoned me.” She whispers. “Her people abused and then discarded me. My parents hated me from the moment I drew breath. And yet throughout it all…you have been there. My tiger in the night.”

Her hands rest flat to his chest, legs draping slowly over his thighs and resting in place. “I ache for you, my tiger.” The buttons of his shirt fall open, one after the other, under her nimble fingers. “I feel so empty. So cold. I have hurt you, so many times. I never meant…”

“You’re forgiven.” He whispers, willing the smoldering flame to not erupt, not just yet, and grabs her hands before she can pull his shirt from the waistband. “But not like this.”

Hurt flickers across her face and pools in her eyes. “You do not want me?”

He breathes out a sharp chuckle. “Want you…” he echoes, rubbing both thumbs over her wrists, “I want you beyond the point of coherency and sanity, Iris. But you’re not going to play this game. Not with me. Not right now.”

“I am playing no game, Victor.” She protests, pleading. “Please…”

“Nearly a month, you refused me, Iris.” He reminds her, in no uncertain terms. “You wouldn’t even stay in the same room with me for longer than five minutes. And now you expect me to believe things are different. Now, you think one night changes everything? I won’t play that game, and if you value your wellbeing, neither will you. I won’t kill you, but I will make you suffer for toying with me like this.”

Her eyes flicker down to her captured hands, then the floor, and finally back to his face. “This is my fault.” She murmurs, with heavy resignation. “Forgive me.”

One hand releases her wrist just to take hold of her arm, keeping her in place a moment more. “Prove your decision, Iris.” He says, quietly, holding her gaze. “Prove to me that things are different.”

_Prove you still love me._


End file.
